


Promises to Jane

by Always_Worth_It



Category: Original Work
Genre: Friendship, Friendship/Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Always_Worth_It/pseuds/Always_Worth_It
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short story inspired by A Prayer for Owen Meany. Originally written for high school English class project.</p>
<p>Jane was the best friend anyone could ever ask for. She was everything I wished I could be, but she was also every failure I was afraid of becoming. I could never keep my most important promise to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises to Jane

It’s amazing, the kind of effect one person can have on your life. When you first meet someone, you don’t say to yourself, “Gee, I wonder where we’ll be in twenty years.” You think you’ve just met a new acquaintance; for all you know, it’s both the first and last time you’ll ever see them.

I first met Jane at the end of sixth grade. We were twelve years old, two middle school girls with no concept yet of who we were or would someday be.

I will remember Jane for the rest of my life. I won’t remember her for all the fun we had together, or for how difficult she sometimes made my life, or for how badly we got on at times. I will remember Jane as the person who stuck to her promises, whatever the cost.

Jane looked much older than I did. She was a tall, leggy blonde, with a figure far beyond her years, and the wardrobe to emphasize it. She wore make-up as long as I knew her, and her gait was not the awkward shuffle or hesitant, falsified swagger of an adolescent, but rather the strut of a dominatrix. 

I, on the other hand, was a mousy little brunette, who could sooner pass for nine than twelve. Jane looked like an eighteen-year-old supermodel, and I looked like her shy and comparatively homely baby sister.

As soon as we opened our mouths, though, it was obvious that Jane was really a preteen, and I could sound mature beyond our years.

There was always something childlike about Jane’s pattern of speech, and I was convinced it stemmed from her thought process rather than her speech itself. She could deliver the most moving and mature monologues. She was a perfect mimic; Jane’s mind was a force to be reckoned with, for sure, but it was rare that she made this clear. She had more energy than anyone else I’ve ever known. She never seemed to use the outlets she had available, like school activities or homework--if something didn’t strike Jane’s fantastic fancy exactly, she would cast it aside without another thought.

Jane’s childlike behaviors made us a perfect pair. She kept people from messing with me, because all the girls were intimidated by her and all the boys were unwilling to cross her from an early stage in life. In return, I helped her stay organized and be responsible for things like homework and chores. I was a very good student; Jane was a bit lacking in the discipline department. Her academic performance was always the first thing to suffer when she was on a decline.

Her sense of social propriety also significantly lagged behind her physical maturity. It wasn’t that Jane was nasty. She just always had a dangerous look in her eye that told people not to mess with her, and those who did understood why I tried so hard to be her keeper. I often felt that I was playing the role of babysitter when we were younger—Jane would act up and say something she shouldn’t have, someone would complain, and I would have to mediate and “make nice” to keep Jane safe. It was never anything too serious, and I always handled it--until high school, anyway. 

I fought with her more than anyone. Nearly every conversation we had ended in a heated argument. I was only looking out for her best interests, but Jane would have none of it. She held her ground resolutely, and to this day, I am haunted by the phrase, “But you _promised_!” I suppose it doesn't really surprise me that the last thing she ever did was tell me off.

The day we went to the party was, in effect, the day that I killed my best friend. 

 

 

Jane and I had been steadily growing apart throughout high school, much to my chagrin. I knew a large part of the responsibility fell on me. I had a life outside of Jane; I had other friends. Despite the fact that I was originally shyer than she, I had always had an easier time making friends than Jane did because she came on a bit too strong at times, and she also had a proclivity for being hesitant to trust.

I wasn’t exactly what you might call popular, but I was never at a loss when it came to a list of people I could call up on the weekend if I was free and wanted to hang out. Jane had me, of course, and two or three others, but there was no one else with whom she willingly associated. 

She blossomed in high school, though, even more than we expected given her early development. To say I was jealous of how well Jane had grown into her prematurely established body would be an understatement. Though she had no more friends than she had at twelve, there was a budding maturity about her which made people like her more, and it became easier for me to justify our distanced relationship.

We went through the motions: we greeted one another in the halls, we hung up the phone with an “I love you” after each call, and we stuck together in larger social scenes.

That is, until the end of our junior year. Jane and I had always bonded over the fact that neither of us had held a boy’s interest, nor a boy ours, for more than a month or so before that time. Jane knew that I had liked this one particular boy, though, since the beginning of sophomore year, and no matter how hard I tried to rid myself of lingering affections, they always came back stronger. Jane hated him, and I am convinced to this day that it was solely because she felt he had taken me away from her. I still feel the pangs of remorse when I recall that, in a way, she was right; my relationship with the boy had been the instrument of our ultimate separation, but really, he took _her_ away from _me_.

I spent that entire summer with him. I was still in our annual summer musical production with her, and for the first time ever, she had a lead and I did not. I was as supportive as possible, but, I will admit, I did pull away from her; in turn, I spent even more time with the boy so I had an excuse to avoid her and the unbearable jealousy I bore towards her.

Jane and I were in completely different class sets by our senior year. Though we had begun our secondary educations in mostly the same classes, her grades had slowly slipped until she was unable to maintain the letters necessary for continued placement in the honors levels. In our penultimate year, I knew we had begun to grow apart because the college process was beginning. We looked at schools: she chose state institutions and smaller, less competitive colleges; I sought Ivy Leagues and highly competitive universities, as well as sprawling city campuses far away from her remote rural picks in quaint college towns. I applied to half of the Ivies; she was applying to our state school as a reach.

Jane’s development seemed to retard with the commencement of the college process. As she fleshed out a portfolio and retook standardized tests repeatedly, I finished my applications and focused once more on my schoolwork. As things stood, I was poised for valedictorian of my class. As far as I was aware, Jane would be lucky to graduate with a GPA not quite approaching a 3.0. 

The differences between us were always highlighted in our relationship. She was tall and I was short; she was well-endowed, while I was lean. Where she had trouble focusing, I excelled. Her triumphs were in areas about which I could claim no knowledge.

Her morals were less definitively stated than my own, yet mine were the ones which adapted to a shifting worldview—a worldview that apparently changed more radically than I was equipped to handle, without me even realizing it.

Jane and I had joked back in eighth grade that we would enter high school and really make ourselves noticeable. She would dress me up like a petite model and teach me how to style my hair if I would coach her in conversational skills and social cues. We were determined to become popular attractions with boys, in addition to our hopes of becoming well-liked among the petty girls our age. 

We promised one another that, no matter what happened, we would always be friends, and we would keep each other in line. We would take care of one another.

Jane’s mouth got her in trouble again, though. It was so long ago, I honestly can’t recall what the issue even was. But I distinctly remember sitting in the guidance office for hours, memorizing her schedule and her exact needs, socially and academically, while confiding in her counselor regarding her recent strange behavior and the beginnings of what appeared to be suicidal leanings.

From that day on, I saw Jane almost like a lab animal. I kept a constant eye on her, and I tried to make sure she was taking care of herself. I felt a personal responsibility for her; how Cain could ever claim he was not his brother’s keeper, I will never understand. What happened was entirely my fault, and I have always been haunted by the sense that she was, and is to this day, my charge. 

 

 

 

We were seniors when it happened. 

There was a party at a house down the street from Jane’s, hosted by some guy in one of her classes. My boyfriend had some mutual friends with the host, so we were invited. Jane was going, I knew, so I at least had her to talk to, if no one else.

I was mildly better at social situations than Jane, but I was totally unprepared for this. I didn’t know the guy at all; I had no idea that there would be drugs and drinking at the party, and that even the soda bottles had been spiked.

I was completely out of my element. Being the study-focused goody-two-shoes, I had never partied like that before, and I couldn’t handle it. Jane didn’t drink anything except water, ever, so she kept her head at the party and got me out of there somehow.

When I woke up the next morning, I was in Jane’s bedroom, tucked neatly into her bed. She lay sprawled on a beanbag chair across the room, still in her outfit from the party. I couldn’t see very well in the darkness of her room, but she seemed to be peacefully asleep. My clothes reeked of alcohol and the dim light from her digital clock made my head spin.

I crept out of her bed, grabbed my purse, and headed for the door. I paused and turned back to scrawl a quick “Thanks-I owe you, big time,” on a receipt from my bag. I dropped the receipt on her pillow and left.

 

 

 

That was in the fall. We never spoke of the incident, but I know Jane never looked at me the same way. It hadn’t been my fault that the drinks were spiked, and my boyfriend honestly hadn’t known that the party was going to be like that. He was surprised by it, too, and he hadn’t gotten me out before Jane had to because he was just as messed up as I was.

Jane didn’t say it, but I knew she was mad at me. I didn’t break up with the boy who had failed to protect me against his own so-called friends. In her book, I could never have committed that offense. Not the “me” she knew, anyway. I was a different person now. I was of the social, peer-pressure-driven world, while she remained her natural self, untainted by institutions and associations. I could no longer be trusted; if I couldn’t save myself, I could certainly never save anyone else, and especially not her.

She was right.

I wasn’t the only one who held back and pulled away in the relationship. We always said we were still best friends, but we both knew it was a lie. We didn’t talk about anything of substance, really. We talked about boys and school and our plans for the future, but it was all shallow—we talked to avoid discussing our loss of connection. We chatted whenever we could, but it was really so we didn’t have to face the fact that our relationship was falling apart.

She didn’t tell me any of the problems she was really having: she almost failed out of two more of her classes; the boy she liked was a lying cheater; she was hurt, physically and mentally; I had failed her.

I was her best friend, and I knew that. We weren’t as close as we used to be, but she certainly was no closer to anyone else. I had outgrown her in many ways, but she still needed me. I stopped cleaning up her messes both socially and academically, and the filth was piling up.

One day I found a note in my locker. It wasn’t labeled or signed, but I knew her handwriting anywhere. 

_I can’t do this,_ she wrote. _I can’t sit around pretending we’re all okay anymore. We aren’t. You’re not my best friend anymore. Where did you go? You were my sister. We were going to be best friends for life._

_I’m not a part of your life anymore, and I can’t stand knowing that I never will be again. You don’t seem to want to be a part of my life. I can’t trust you…you aren’t you. You’re just someone I guess I used to know, and I know I’ll be the same to you._

_Love you…if you’re still in there somewhere, I hope you think the same._

I didn’t know what to make of it. I knew if I saw it in a book somewhere my English teacher would jokingly ask who the author’s guidance counselor was. This didn’t seem right. I wondered if she was suicidal again, like in freshman year when her issues first started. What did she mean soon she would just be someone I used to know? Was she talking about separating for college, or was she going to kill herself? The last few lines really bothered me; of course we knew each other, and of course I was still me.

My mind was whirring like a finely tuned computer, flashing faster than lightning. I remembered bits and pieces of her schedule, but only because I had hand-picked her academic track freshman year and I knew most of her classes were only offered one period a day.

I waited outside her last period class nervously, hoping against all odds to catch her before she could make a huge mistake. In the crazed bustle of the hallway upon the ringing of the bell, I nearly missed her as she darted from the room and down the long corridor.

“Jane!” I called frantically, running after her. My backpack full to bursting with thick textbooks made it difficult, so I dropped the bag and sprinted through the hall, heedless of the enraged screams of other students protesting the new obstacle. 

I caught up to her a few hundred yards up the road from the school. I was panting heavily, clutching at my sides as my lungs grasped for oxygen. Jane stood motionless on the edge of a forest.

“You followed me,” she whispered.

“Of course I did!” I gasped. “I love you, and when you leave me a suicide note in my locker-”

“Like you actually care! We both know you’re only here to save your own conscience. If you really cared about me at all, you wouldn’t blow me off when I try to talk to you! You wouldn’t choose _him_ over me constantly! And you would have listened to me the one time in my life I tried to take care of you! You’re not here to stop me from killing myself, you’re here because you think it’s your fault! And you know what? It would be!”

I didn’t even see her move, but suddenly I was on the ground, and she was on top of me, and she was hitting me and shrieking as she let her full fury loose.

“I loved you!” she wailed as she beat me. “You were supposed to protect me and take care of me! You promised! _You_ _promised!_ ”

“I’m sorry,” I coughed. I had a furiously bleeding nose, which sent a hot metallic taste rushing down my throat to gag me, and I found out later she had cracked two of my ribs.

She stopped as suddenly as she had started, and when she got off me, I could see that her eyes were strangely dim, but still somehow wildly crazed. They were unfocused, almost like she was blankly staring at me from beyond the grave.

It was the first real conversation we had had in ages, and frankly it hurt. The physical beating didn’t sting nearly as much as the truth in what she said.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “If I had only known…if you had just told me…Jane…” I was at a loss for words. I wanted to say a million things to her: I want our lives back, I miss you, I love you, I’ll make it right, I forgot how much you mean to me, I’ve been blind to how empty my life is-

But none of it came out. All I could manage was, “I’m so sorry.”

Her eyes turned cold and her body tensed. Unnaturally rigid, she collapsed into a heap on the precipice between road and forest. She began to speak, but it was so faint I almost missed it. “It isn’t really you. It’s everything, and you can’t help but be a part of it. You haven’t been watching out for me, and I’ve gotten into some trouble I can’t really get out of. You want to know how I really got you out of that party last semester?”

I didn’t respond, but I didn’t need to, for she went on after my silence. “I told the guy who was hosting that he had to get you somewhere safe. You couldn’t handle it and that pitiful excuse for a human being you call a boyfriend was too far gone to be of any use to me. I asked for a place to take you to sober up, or some help getting you out. He just laughed and told me to piss off--you were having fun. 

“You don’t remember that night at all, do you? Well, I carried you out by myself, and I went back to get all your stuff and take away your boyfriend’s keys because I knew you would be upset if something happened to him.” 

My breath hitched painfully in my still-heaving chest. I didn’t like where this story was going.

“They beat the shit out of me. They broke four of my ribs, split my lip, dislocated my shoulder, and gave me a sick concussion on the driveway. That’s why my grades went berserk this year. I never fully recovered from it, and I can’t handle school anymore. I’m supposed to try college starting part-time next year, instead of full like we had always planned. 

“You know what hurt the most, out of all of it? I was your friend. I was looking out for you. I was keeping you in line, and I was taking care of you. I tried to keep my promise, and be your sister. My life is over as a result. You were supposed to be the one who helped me with school. Now, as a result of something that happened to you, I’ll never do well in school again. But you promised! You were supposed to keep me safe from other people! The first time I really did that for you…I only went to the party because I knew you were going. I had no idea what would happen, I just thought I needed to. For you.

“And I was right! If I didn’t…you’d be dead right now. He wouldn’t give me his damn keys. He said he was fine. I stole them, that’s why they beat me up. He would have driven you home, drunk off his ass, and gotten you killed. I took care of you, and all I got in return was a beating and a fucking receipt! I took care of you because you aren’t you anymore, and that means there’s no one to protect me. But you _promised_!”

I never got a chance to reply. 

 

She convulsed madly, seizing and retching. Her breathing became erratic and her eyes frantic, but only for a moment, and then-

 

She was still.

 

 

 

 

The doctor told me later in the OR waiting room that she had suffered from a chronic subdural hematoma. Her concussion after the beating had not been just a concussion, but rather a concealed hemorrhage. It was only about half a centimeter wide, he said, so the bleeding had been insignificant enough that it had stopped on its own shortly after her original CT scan. 

I didn’t understand most of what he said, but I forced myself to listen to the basics, horrifying as they were. The doctors hadn’t originally been concerned because most patients with chronic rather than acute subdural hematomas recover fully, or almost fully. Jane’s perpetual activity and restlessness had likely caused her to receive several other minor head injuries in the interim, however. Normally she would have been fine, but in this case they caused the hemorrhage to bleed again. The build-up had made the hemorrhage more severe.

Jane had hurt herself again while she was beating me. The bleed reopened, and it was too much. The dizziness which caused her to fall at the side of the road was a symptom of the subdural bleeding, and it progressed into her seizure and other symptoms. The bleed had slowly expanded over the months, and could now be classified as an acute subdural hematoma, the survival rate of which was abysmally low. She didn’t stand a chance.

There was nothing I could have done. 

She kept her promise, better than I could have ever imagined she would. She took care of me, and in the end, I couldn’t keep my promise and return the favor.

I’m so sorry, Jane. Even now, that’s all I can come up with. I wish I still had the chance to tell you how much I miss you, and love you, and wish you were with me again. 

I swear I will never make another promise I can’t keep. I just wish you hadn’t paid for me to learn that lesson with your life. I’m naming my first girl Jane. I promise: I will be her friend; I will keep her in line; I will take care of her—at any cost.

 

 


End file.
